


30 Days of Sleep

by Misha_Collins_Overlord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Character Death, Comatose Sam Winchester, Headcanon, Hurt Dean Winchester, I based it off when Sam was dying after the trials and in that hospital, Incest, Lots of story telling, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Not exactly rape/non-con but really how much consent can Sam give when he's in a coma, Protective Dean Winchester, Spoilers up to season 8, Wincest - Freeform, lots of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misha_Collins_Overlord/pseuds/Misha_Collins_Overlord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam got fucked up during a hunt and is currently in a coma. All of Dean's friends are dead - all of them - and he's desperate. He can't live without Sam, so he will try to wake him up. But what happens when the last person who could have helped screws him over? Dean starts talking to Sam, in the hopes that Sam can still hear him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I am nowhere near done writing this fic. I have maybe most of the third chapter on paper. I'm not posting any more until I have it ALL WRITTEN. This is just a teaser as to what's on the horizon. It's not abandoned or forgotten, it's in the works, and it will take longer than hoped because I don't want short paragraphs. But, and here's the best part, I know exactly how it's going to end. So I only have to write up about 25 chapters.  
> edit: I have been daydreaming about this fic so I HAVE TO WRITE MORE OF IT AND POST IT !!

** 5:47pm **

Tears silently fell down Dean’s exhausted face as he fought to stay awake, staring at his unresponsive brother as if it would have made a difference, as if the weight of his stare would rouse Sam from what seemed to just be a peaceful slumber.

But Sam had taken a hard hit to the head, suffered a severe concussion, and when he went to sleep, he didn’t wake up. He was in a coma. For four days now. This was his first night in the hospital.

And Dean couldn’t feel more useless. He felt as if he was running on a treadmill that he couldn’t get off of, and it was beginning to move faster than he could handle. As if he was suffocating while everyone around him breathed freely.

To put it simply, Dean was just lost and overwhelmed. In a haze of desperation and blurred eyes, he took his phone out of his pocket. Why didn’t this cross his mind first?

He’d call Bobby, ask for help. Just as he was about to press the call button, his memory assaulted him with a recollection of bright lights, panic, and a bullet to the brain. Bobby Singer was dead.

Dean’s hand faltered, his breath hitched, and another sob escaped his strained throat. The number he dialled was that of John Winchester.

“Dad,” Dean said, his voice hoarse with evidence of the torture he was being put through. “I, uh . . . I know you’ll never hear this. Nobody ever will. I just thought . . . Maybe . . . Maybe it’d make me feel better. I don’t know, dad . . . It’s Sam. He’s really bad. The doctors, they’re telling me he’s got just over a month at most. I don’t know what to do. Bobby’s dead, dad. Bobby, Rufus, Ash. Ellen. Jo. Cas. Gabriel. Pamela. All dead. Hell, even Ruby’s dead. I just don’t know what to do. I-”

His words choked in his throat. In a sudden rage, he threw his phone across the room. Unsurprisingly, it smashed into pieces.

He put his head in his hands and sank into the chair next to Sam’s bed, letting the sobs surface as they wanted, racking his body. After what felt like an eternity, his breathing regulated and he gathered the strength to lift his head. He stopped dead.

Dean swore he’d seen Sam’s eyelids flicker. A small voice was saying he’d imagined it due to exhaustion, but it was silenced as Dean scrambled to his feet.

“Sam? Are you awake?” Dean asked in a voice that couldn’t contain more hope and utter sadness. “C’mon, Sam, wake up. I don’t know what to do!” He cried. His hands gripped the front of Sam’s hospital gown as he screamed his brother’s name.

“Sam – please! Sam! Sam!” The sobs and yells slowly mingled into a cry that would wrench the heart of anybody that had one. He didn’t realise he was shaking Sam until he was pulled off of him by nurses and doctors and machines were beeping and he was being pushed from the room ( _sir you have to leave_ ) and all he wanted was to see Sam open his eyes and smile and be okay and – _Meg?_

He looked down the hall and he saw Meg leaning against a door, watching him. As soon as they made eye contact, she started walking towards him. Dean’s eyes were glued, slightly widened.

“You know staring is rude, right?” Meg asked with a wink. Smirking as usual.

He just continued staring, incredulous. “Meg,” he said, dumbly.

“In the flesh. Or at least in the flesh-suit. I heard about Sammy,” she said, feigning sympathy.

“It’s been less than a week. No visitors. How could you even . . . ?” He asked, just as a nurse, small and blonde, walked past them, black eyes meeting Dean’s.

“Oh, I’ve got eyes on you,” Meg smiled. Then she sighed. “I want to help,” she offered. “I think tha-“

“No,” Dean cut her off. “No. You can’t, and even if you say you could, why the hell would I trust you? You’re a demon. You’ve screwed us over countless times-”

“And saved your sorry asses,” she interrupted, “just as many times. If not more.” She shrugged and then sighed again.

“Take it or leave it, Dean. You don’t have anybody else and you’re about as useless as a whore without genitals or a mouth if you refuse me. Just saying, what other choice do you have? Besides,” she added. “It’s never bad to have a Winchester in your debt.” She waited while Dean weighed the options.

“I don’t know what I can do,” she admitted. “But I’ll still try.”

Dean’s head snapped up and his expression conveyed anger, grief and desperation.

“Alright, Meg,” he said quietly, through gritted teeth. “Tell me. What’s in it for you?”

They both looked in at Sam, Dean watching the slight rise and fall of his chest, vaguely registering the machine’s beeping, willing his brother to wake up. A tear, unnoticed, trailed down Dean’s cheek.

Meg’s front faltered, and she sounded slightly sad when she spoke. “What can I say? The kid grew on me.”

Dean let out a laugh as the tears flowed more freely. He shook his head, looked at his comatose brother, and smiled. It was devastatingly heartbreaking. “Yeah . . . He does that.”

 

They walked out of the hospital together, Dean needing fresh air, a bacon cheeseburger, pie and alcohol. Meg kept glancing at him, and every time – without fail – he looked preoccupied, troubled. She couldn’t really blame him.

She had genuinely grown to like Sam. She didn’t even know if helping Sam was a viable possibility – which didn’t bother her too much – let alone how she could help. She ran through methods in her head.

Demon deals? No . . . The Winchesters have had enough demon deals already, and Dean ending up in Hell again . . . No.

A spell? A spell to . . . What? Revive a half-dead comatose hunter who has demon blood coursing through his veins?

Well, they’d look anyway.

An angel? The majority were dead, including Cas, and neither Meg nor Dean knew any living angels.

Crowley?

“Meg? You okay?” Dean asked quietly, because Meg had been so caught up in her own thoughts that she’d stopped walking. _How could she twist this to benefit her?_

Their eyes met, and Meg nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Dean led her into a bar filled with the regular six o’clock-sized group. Meg sat at a table with two stools while he ordered a bacon cheeseburger with fries, and their drinks.

Where was she? Oh yeah. Crowley. She knew him well enough to know that, yes, he could help, but he wouldn’t do it out of the goodness of his heart.

No, Crowley would want something in return. Usually a soul. What more could he even take from Dean? What could _she_?

She watched him make his way over on bowed legs and sit down. He handed her a bottle of beer, which she accepted with thanks.

“So, Dean,” she began. “You’re not an idiot and I’m sure you’ve gone through the motions _just_ like I have and you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

Dean stared warily for a full three seconds before nodding and downing half of his whiskey.

“I’m thinkin’, I ask around, go through Bobby’s library for a spell or his journals for a contact or whatever. Or” – he bit into his burger – “bind Crowley. Or Death. Even though the son of a bitch hates me.”

Meg blinked once. Death hadn’t even crossed her mind.

“Crowley would want something – unless I bind him. Or maybe he’ll kick my ass back to Hell as soon as he’s free. Sick bastard _might_ wake Sam but make him fucked up. I don’t know how so I’ll leave that part to the imagination.”

He finished his whiskey and motioned to the bartender for more.

Meg considered this, and then considered how she could work the situation to her own benefit.

 

Dean drove them both to Bobby’s house, Led Zeppelin blaring the entire journey. It usually made him feel better.

Not this time. If anything, he felt worse, Sam wasn’t in the passenger seat complaining about the outdated music or the cassette player in the Impala.

He calmly unlocked the door to Bobby’s house when the got there, and instantly started leafing through the volumes of old books in dusty cardboard boxes. Dean’s eyes looked tired and sunken, glazing over the book covers tiredly.

He didn’t find much – a few necromancy spells which didn’t matter because Sam wasn’t dead. Dean wouldn’t let him die. _He couldn’t live without Sam._

“Hey,” Meg called, holding up an old leather-bound book that looked older than her demon-self. “Latin. ‘To Awaken He Who Is Stuck in Sleep.’ Seems like it could help.” Under her breath, she whispered what Dean acknowledged as the title, “ _Qui somno excitare haesit._ ” She twisted her lips to the side.

Dean raised his eyebrows at the Latin. “Rough translation,” she muttered.

Dean held out his hand and gestured for the book. Meg pretended not to see, reading through the instructions. She swore and was gone, leaving Dean to furrow his brow in the emptiness.

She returned, hands as bloody as the bone she was holding. She tossed it to Dean, whose natural reflexes kicked in. He caught it. And gagged.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” she smirked. He looked at her, nauseated, a question in his dark-circled eyes.

Meg rolled her. “Bone of the devout. And that –” she gestured to the dripping appendage – “Clavicle. First part I could grab.”

Dean dropped it into the sink and cleaned his hands. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a damp thumb and index finger.

“Dean,” Meg said softly. “I know you’re afraid it won’t work or it’ll make him worse. Worst case scenario if we do use it? Nothing happens, and I tore out a part of a man for no reason,” she shrugged. “What other option do you have?”

Dean stood from where he’d been leaning against the wall and threw his empty beer bottle and it smashed against the door it struck.

“I just want my damn brother back!” He yelled. “We never catch a goddamn break, it’s one evil son of a bitch or another crisis right after another! One of us is either on the brink of death, dead, insane, or in Hell or purgatory and for what? To save a goddamn world that doesn’t even know it’s been saved? Every single person we ever cared about is dead – family, friends, other hunters . . . It’s not fair! We sacrifice the most and suffer more than any other living person. Or monster. What do we get in return for that sacrifice? We get punched, kicked, beaten, stabbed, shot – Hell, we’ve even been killed a few times! Does that sound like gratitude to you? Cos you and I both know that Sam is the one who deserves a long and happy life, not me! I swore he’d get out of this life, cos I _can’t_ , there’s no hope for me, but Sam can go and meet a girl, have a family and a dog and die old of something normal, and his family will _never grow up in this_ _sad excuse for a life!”_

Dean was breathing hard, tears streaming down his face, as Meg stared in stunned silence.

He shook his head and wiped his face, hand falling to rest on the hilt of the demon knife in his waistband.

He pulled the book away from Meg, instantly squinting in confusion.

Meg cursed herself internally, and hoped Dean’s Latin was terrible.

“ _Continere anime viventium_?” He frowned, trying to place the words. His brow furrowed in concentration, mouthing the phrase repeatedly.

His movements stilled suddenly. Dean straightened, meeting Meg’s eyes, which had turned black in her panic.

“You son of a bitch. ‘To control the soul of the living?’ Trying to fucking control my damn soul, Meg?” He snapped.

“ _You selfish asshole, you got Castiel killed!_ ” She shot back. “You had him save your brother and you had no problem abandoning him in that fucking institute! I was in Sam, you know. He loves you – it’s _disgusting_ – he wants to fuck you, Dean, like Cas fucked me!” She laughed, eyes returning to normal.

Her laughter was cut short, it turned into a scream as Dean plunged the demon knife deep into her body.

He roughly threw her body – now uninhabited – to the side. He refused to let himself acknowledge anything she said.

Now, he truly was alone.

He spent another hour scouring Bobby’s archive of books before coming up empty-handed, and accepting it.

 

He made his way back to the hospital.


	2. Update

For anyone who has read the initial chapter of this fic -- thank you. I've been hella busy lately with work but my mind wanders a lot and it got me back into this fic. So I'm going to start writing it again, as well as the fae-folk!Castiel one.


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